1000 Days at the Chateau- chapter 8
by Jacqueline Boutade
Summary: Valentine's happiness after the ball is fleeting as Guy sets off for Prince Alexei's wedding without her. She is heart broken, then devastated to find she is pregnant, but who is the father? Wracked with guilt she seeks advice from the priest. She falls terribly ill, through guilt and desperation and a broken heart, Mathilde believes. The baby is lost and she is terribly weakened.


One Thousand Days – Chapter 8 – A Wedding

The chateau seemed a sad and lonely place in the wake of the festivities. Servants returned to their normal duties hoping the marquis would not wait so long for the next ball. The servants' ball had been a modest affair compared to the one for guests, but they too had danced until dawn in their finery, drinking too much and falling in and out of love in the space of a dance.

Valentine was the only person glad to have things back to normal, for all parts of her life were back to normal. Her lessons with Monsieur Artois resumed their brisk pace, with Valentine preferring some Russian history to learn, as well as Monsieur's particular calligraphy skills, which seemed to her almost like being an artist. She was riding out with Rene once more, who was also pleased to have things back to normal: he'd been run off his feet by the prince and the dukes, not to mention the hunt. Besides, he had missed Valentine's company more than he cared to admit. She was, he realised, as her riding resumed, the highlight of his week.

'Why do ladies not hunt, Rene?' she asked.

'It is considered too hard, my lady. Shooting an arrow, or a pistol is not as easy as it may look.'

'Teach me,' she said.

'I am not sure that it is allowed,' he stammered.

'I'll find a way,' she said, thinking of what she could suggest to Mathilde or Jacques to persuade them to persuade the marquis that her skills should be developed along more athletic grounds. She was a fine horsewoman, why could she not shoot an arrow, handle a gun or wield a sword as well?

Her evenings returned to the simple pleasure of playing cards with the marquis and making silent gentle love. He did not press her on anything that had transpired with his friends, for which she was thankful, as now that they had gone she wished to forget them and all that had happened. In this quiet way, she could return to being the marquis' lover. He had taken to staying all night in her bed and she often woke before him to watch him wake. It pleased him to find her smiling at him as he faced each new day. She felt the tenderness in him return and slept easier once again.

Twelve days after the ball the marquis made an announcement. 'I am going away for a little while, Valentine. Prince Alexei is to be married, in Vienna of all places. He will have a month of entertainments and mother and I will go.'

'I cannot?' she said quietly.

He shook his head, looking away. 'It is out of the question.'

'But I would be so good. You promised to take me travelling. I would not disgrace you.'

'No,' he nodded. 'But I will not take you. It is not a fit event for one such as you.'

'But...'

'I know you think Alexei was taken with you and that is true. But even if he wanted you to attend his wedding his prospective wife would not and Mama does not. Therefore I do not. There is no discussion, Valentine.'

She bowed her head: whenever was there a discussion on anything? 'How long will you be gone?'

'Three months is estimated by the time we travel, attend the festivities and return home.'

'Three months,' she cried.

'It will pass quickly.'

She nodded, returning her gaze to the fire, barely aware of his return to his own room. It may pass quickly for him off travelling and enjoying himself at what would be an extravagant wedding, but she, left behind, would find the time dragging: she would be aware of every minute he was gone.

She watched them leave the next day; several large boxes loaded onto the best carriage. Travelling in the second carriage was Jacques, Nathalie, Elise's personal maid, and Robert, the marquis' groom. Hugo, the marquis' secretary, was now in charge of the estate in the absence of the marquis and the dowager. Monsieur Artois and Mathilde were responsible for Valentine. Thus she waited until the small party had disappeared down the long avenue of poplars before suggesting her new lessons.

Mathilde shrugged. Monsieur Artois vacillated and then acquiesced. He shrugged his shoulders, 'What harm could it do?' Valentine hugged him and set about drawing up a schedule for her new lessons. It might keep her mind from dwelling on events and people far away.

But in the face of her abandonment Valentine found it hard to keep a brave face on things. She learnt the Russian royal family and list of Tsars in order. She continued her interest in the ancient world by learning about the campaigns of Alexander and Julius Cesar. Somewhere in her heart she was determined to prove to the marquis that she was more than a toy, more than a woman. Her accomplishments needed to be more than how to dance, make polite conversation or please a man.

Her appetite faded. She wanted only soup for dinner and found she could not eat at all of a morning, feeling unwell for most of the day. Having demanded more physical activities she found after two weeks that she was too weak to be in the fields each day. She stayed in bed all day, claiming it was just exhaustion after all the excitement of recent times.

Mathilde shook her head. 'Pining,' she said to Sophie, who cleared away the half eaten dinner tray. 'She is pining for the marquis, poor thing.'

'Did she really expect to go to the prince's wedding?'

Mathilde nodded. 'She thought she would be invited, especially after the prince gave her that divine necklace.'

'Even though she is only a mistress.'

Mathilde glowered. 'Some mistresses have been very powerful in history and are even now. If our lady ever has a son she will indeed have power in this household, especially if the marquis continues to dally with taking a new wife.'

'And he loves her,' Sophie ventured.

'Hush girl,' Mathilde scolded. 'You cannot say such things. What do you know of love?'

'Didn't you watch them dance at the ball? I did, through the French doors. I saw the way he looked at her, how beautifully they danced together. He loves her too.'

'It's true, he could have taken her to Vienna. I wonder why he did not?' Mathilde pondered. 'One of the things that civilises us is that mistresses are presented at court and can live very fine lives in the city. Imagine our Valentine in the courts and drawing rooms of Paris?'

'Would she take us?' Sophie wondered.

'If the marquis won't take her to Vienna do you think he is going to take her to Paris?'

Sophie shrugged. 'I need to dream, Mathilde.'

'Then dream of Rene or Jean-Pierre.'

'But they only dream of Valentine,' she cried.

Valentine roused from her bed a day later but was still unwell and collapsed on her walk around the gardens with Monsieur Artois. She fell into him, he steadied her but she was unable to take many steps unaided before she fell against him again. He examined her face. 'My dear, you are deathly pale. You must return to your bed and rest before some malady overtakes you.'

Mathilde felt Valentine's forehead and found it too warm but not feverish. Her skin was pale and she was losing weight. 'You must eat,' Mathilde instructed. 'Not matter how much you are missing him you must eat.'

'I cannot, Mathilde. I feel too ill every morning. I look at the tray, I sip the chocolate and it makes me want to be sick. My stomach is heaving. I feel terrible.'

A look of panic gripped Mathilde's face. No, surely not? They had been so particular with Valentine's hygiene. 'When did you last bleed, madam?'

Valentine sat up in bed. 'I cannot recall. Before the ball, before the marquis' friends came to stay.' Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. 'No, Mathilde, no.'

Mathilde took her hand. 'I think so, my dear. Sometimes we cannot prevent such things, even though we do our best.'

Valentine felt the tears hot and wet upon her face. To have the marquis's child would not be so bad, after all it was expected and a natural outcome of her position, but this child could be anyone's. She would never know who its father was and that thought sent a shudder through her body. She could not face the marquis knowing another man's seed may sit in her belly.

'I cannot have this child,' she said. 'I cannot have it. He will throw me out. He will break the bond and I will be destitute with a child I do not want and cannot love. Mathilde, what can we do?'

Mathilde shook her head. 'You don't know what you are asking. Women die or are ruined for life. It is too dangerous.'

Valentine grabbed Mathilde by the arms. 'You must tell no-one of this. No-one must ever know anything. Not Sophie, not Monsieur Artois and never the marquis. It must be our secret.'

Mathilde nodded, well it could only be a secret for a little while until the tell tale signs of the child were there for all the world to see. But no-one need know of the child's origins, that much was true. 'You have always been able to trust me. I will never tell a soul. Now, you must try to sleep. We must pray. Tomorrow we will take a special trip to the chapel and ask for God's help. His light will shine on us and help us. I know this, Valentine. He knows you have a good soul, a pure heart, he will not desert you.'

Her words were of the greatest comfort to Valentine and by the time Mathilde left the girl her tears had dried and she was calmer if not happier. Mathilde herself felt a chill go across her soul and she hoped that she had not lied, that God was looking after them. He needed to be a kind God now, an understanding and forgiving God, who would help them.

Valentine had never missed the weekly services held in the chateau's chapel for all who worked there. The marquis and the dowager took prominence in the front pew and then there was a strict hierarchical order for seating within the house of God. Valentine usually sat with Monsieur Artois and Mathilde two rows behind the marquis. Here she could watch him as well as pay attention to the priest. She loved the chapel, its stained glass windows, as elaborate as the large church in the centre of Chatillon, its stone buttressed roof, its cold stone floor. She had learnt the hymns as a child and singing them helped her feel the innocence of childhood once again; felt her mother's warm hand holding hers as they sang in praise of God. She took communion and went to confession once a month. It was one of the things that helped her accept her role in life; that the priest and God seemed to understand and forgive her considerable sins. She had taken to sitting in quiet contemplation in the darker recesses of the chapel during times when life seemed particularly testing and, along with Mathilde's friendship and Monsieur Artois' gentle humour, found comfort. God's house was a silent oasis in her storm strewn life.

But, she wondered, entered the sacred space, would God help her now? She dabbed the holy water upon her body in the sign of the cross, bowed and took a seat with Mathilde towards the back of the chapel. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, playing pretty patterns upon the ancient floors. Mathilde smiled, 'It is a sign,' she whispered. 'God is with us. Now, pray my child.' Mathilde fell to her knees, head bowed, her hands clasped in prayer. Valentine followed.

Valentine spoke to God as she had never before: she had never asked anything for herself before; always she had prayed for others. She prayed for her family every day, and the marquis and her dear friends at the chateau. She asked for guidance and took the priest's lessons and absolutions to heart, completing all her Hail Marys without fail. But today she prayed for herself.

'Dear Lord, I ask You to look upon me with compassion. I know I am a sinner, the worst sinner for I do not honour the decent moral codes of my community. I know what I am: a whore. But, Lord, what else can I be? I am a poor peasant from a sad family. You know how we have suffered, how the death of my brother destroyed my father, burdened my mother with hopelessness. But my life has given them hope again; some money, a new chance at happiness. How can that be wrong? I am Your obedient servant. I worship You in Your house and in my heart. I confess my sins to Your servant and he hears me and absolves me. He shows me that You understand.

'Dear God, I am obedient to my master. I honour the marquis and do as he commands, even though I know sometimes what he asks is not right. But am bonded to him and must do as he bids. What would You have me do, Lord? I cannot defy him. I can only obey. In my heart and soul I am a good person. I am kind to my friends, I learn my lessons well. I know my place and do all I can to make the marquis happy. Is that not good enough?

'I know you know why I am here. I know you can see into my heart and know my darkest secrets: you know my shame. Lord, you are everywhere, you know everything. I ask you to listen to my plea. To open your great and forgiving heart to me. I know it is a sin to kill a living thing and what is inside me is a living thing, at the beginning of their life. But Lord, its life will be the end of mine. I do not want to be disgraced, to be cast out from the marquis' life. Lord, I love him. Lord, I know in my heart that this child is not his. I know this child will bring shame upon him too. How can I do that to him?

'Lord, I know what I am asking is a sin. I should never ask for a life to be taken, especially not one that has yet to fully begin. But that is what I ask, Lord. Take this child from me. I remain your humble servant, Valentine.'

Valentine remained on her knees for hours, long after Mathilde sat in the pew, reading her prayer book, Valentine continued her own prayer. The sun left the windows and the chapel darkened and cooled. The priest passed them by, nodding a silent greeting to Mathilde. He returned some little time later. 'Do you need me, Valentine?' he whispered softly in her ear.

She turned her tear stained face to his, her anguish so clearly written there. 'Pray for me, Father. Please pray for me, a poor and desperate sinner. Please pray for me.'

'My child, you are always in my prayers.' He took her arm to raise her to her feet. He held her hand to impart God's love to her. 'If I may be so bold, I think the Lord has heard you and would want you to return to the warmth of your rooms. You are deathly pale and your hand is frozen.'

Mathilde and the priest helped Valentine to her bed, she was so fatigued from hours at prayer. She was frozen to the bone and all attempts at getting her to take some warm sustenance failed. Sophie bought the bed warmer and Rene stoked the fire high, ready to stay all night tending the fire and watching Valentine. Mathilde lay extra covers on the bed, including the prince's bear-skin rug, and left once Valentine was asleep.

The next day she was no better, nor the next. 'She must have caught a chill,' Mathilde muttered to Sophie, for she knew being with child did not make a woman this sick.

'She barely speaks,' said Sophie. 'And turns away from all food. All I can get her to take is a little water. She takes two spoons of soup and pushes me away. She has not touched any bread for weeks it seems.'

Mathilde touched Valentine's forehead, as before it was warm but not feverish. She was not sure what to do. She knew the ailments of pregnancy; that a woman may feel ill of a morning, that her breasts would be tender and swollen, that she would not bleed for nine months, that her body would show no visible signs until about three months and then only a thickening of her waist such that her corsets could not be tightened as usual. Once the three months was up the woman usually returned to full health, blossoming as her baby grew inside her. Aches and pains would appear as the baby grew heavier and some women had strange desires for food, or could eat very little at all again as the baby pressed upon the woman's organs, making her feel full all the time. No-one Mathilde had seen had been this pale, this unable to take food for so many weeks. She returned to her original diagnosis: Valentine was pining for the marquis and now the shame she felt at being with child was making her ill.

'She is thinner than when she arrived,' Sophie said to Mathilde a week later. 'When I help to her ablutions she is light, like a child. She is fading away.'

Mathilde looked to the heavens and knew God had deserted Valentine. She was too full of sin and there was nothing to be done. She no longer feared for the child, or from the child, but now feared for Valentine. She was wasting away before their eyes, the life within holding on while the life without was letting go.

'She needs air, some exercise perhaps?' Mathilde mused. 'Can we find a push-chair to take her around the gardens in?'

'Rene would carry her,' said Sophie. 'He would walk her around and then let her sit on a bench for some time. It might help.'

It did not. Valentine returned to her bed as listless as she left it. Mathilde wondered if it was time to call the doctor, but that would mean he would know and Valentine's secret would be in the world and Mathilde could not be sure of the doctor's discretion.

'A bath,' said Sophie. 'Remember how much she loved her baths when she first arrived and how many she had! She has not had one in so long.'

Rene was duly summonsed and a warm bath was prepared, as in the early days with oils and petals from the few flowers still in bloom in the garden. Sophie washed her hair gently and was horrified to note how thin it was. Gone was the luxurious mass of golden curls. Valentine's hair was like thinning straw in an over worked field.

'At least she is clean,' said Mathilde. 'Perhaps it will make her feel better.'

But the night brought a scream that woke Rene and sent him scuttling for Mathilde. Valentine was crying, moaning; clutching her belly in agony. Spasms of pain were renting her poor thin body in two. Her face was deathly white.

Mathilde was frightened. If she was right Valentine was losing the child but given her weakened state she might also lose her own life, which, Mathilde conceded, seemed to be what she wanted. She sent Rene for the priest and Sophie to come with cold water and towels. She would have to take the girl into her confidence, but given Sophie's devotion to Valentine it seemed a risk worth taking. If Valentine lived, Mathilde would wear the consequences of betraying her confidence. For now they had to help her through the loss of the child. There was not enough time to send for the doctor.

In the morning the child was gone. A bloody mess was gathered up and dispatched to the furnaces. It was barely formed but saddened Mathilde just the same. Perhaps it was in a better place, its tiny soul with God, who perhaps had not deserted Valentine after all. Valentine was tidied up, set to sleep in clean bedding and clothing. Mathilde had winced at her thinness, her rib bones protruding, her wrists so fragile. She seemed like a tiny child again, especially as she settled into the vastness of the bed.

Valentine awoke many hours later feeling different. She felt a lightening in her body and her soul. She looked around her room to see Rene asleep by the fire and Sophie curled on the corner of her bed. She smiled at her friends and fell back to sleep.

God had not deserted her, but he had taught her a lesson. Valentine understood that. Next time she would not be so lucky, if that was the word for it. As she awoke the morning after the child left her, she felt the emptiness within and was saddened. It would not have been so bad to have a child. But a child needed to be wanted and, even though she knew it was not the child's fault, she did not want it, not when its paternity was in such doubt. She would gladly have the marquis' child if he desired. But she would never know to whom this lost soul belonged. It was enough it was with God.

'We must get you well,' Mathilde smiled as Valentine took her first tender steps out of bed a week later. 'The marquis returns in a month and he must not see you like this.'

'And he must not know, Mathilde, anything.'

Mathilde nodded.

'No-one must tell,' she added, well aware that others had needed to be taken into Mathilde's confidence.

'They have sworn on the Bible. No-one will ever tell him, fear not, Valentine.'

8

8 


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